


Stumpy

by sarahbeniel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Amputation, Disability, F/M, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Major Character Injury, Meet-Cute, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), WinterShock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28637499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbeniel/pseuds/sarahbeniel
Summary: Darcy experiences a life-changing event.(Originally posted in May 2019; revised Jan. 2021)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Darcy Lewis
Comments: 71
Kudos: 316





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was originally posted on Ao3 on 5/19/2019. I took it down in November 2020, and am re-posting it now with some revisions. I also decided to break it into 2 or 3 parts, for easier reading. 
> 
> Disclaimer: the actions taken by characters in this story should not be taken as advice for a real-world medical emergency. This is a work of fiction, set in a comic-book world where super-humans can lift 900-plus-pound objects, and in which people routinely survive the unsurvivable.
> 
> See notes at the end of the final chapter (when posted) for more info about the title.

**Part One: What the Hell Just Happened**

* * *

It was a quiet Monday morning at the upstate Avengers compound, and Steve Rogers was busy making himself breakfast— an appetizer, at least— in the VIP break-room: six big slices of toast, which he was slathering with generous globs of seedy-red raspberry jelly— spreading it in thick, artful sweeps, like he was wielding a painter’s palette knife. 

Bucky had joined him a few minutes earlier— had shuffled in, half-awake; managed a tired grunt of a greeting as he snagged a granola bar from the array of grab-and-go snacks on the center island— and was now silently rummaging around in the fridge, looking for more quick carbs. 

Steve was about to speak up— debating whether to go through the trouble of making some kind of skillet hash with eggs, or just heat up some leftover pasta for the both of them— when Darcy Lewis blustered into the room behind him, interrupting his thought-process as she sped past him on her way to the snack cupboard. 

“Hey, Steve; how’s it hangin’?” 

He looked up from his work to respond— introduce her to Bucky— but only caught the back side of her; she was in a hurry: already halfway across the room. She had a big, black, deflated-looking backpack strapped to her shoulders, her long brown hair tumbling loose over the top of it. 

The woman was obviously on a mission— her question rhetorical— so he saved the introductions for later; gave her a simple “Hey, Darce,” instead, and went back to his toast. 

* * *

Darcy was running late: only had a few minutes to complete her weekly raid and get over to the lab. She glanced back once, just to verify that Steve was still occupied, and was thrown off for a second— startled— when she realized they weren’t alone in the break room. 

She didn’t know how she’d missed him: the man by the fridge. She didn’t recognize him, but he had his back to her: not much to go on, at first glance, other than _white guy; brown hair_. 

He was tall— leaning over to peer into the fridge, moving stuff around inside; had a fit, athletic figure, from what she could see. His casual black T-shirt clung to his broad frame, tapering down to a pair of heather-grey sweats which sat unevenly on his narrow hips. 

Her eyes dropped a little lower: _nice tush_. 

She considered backing out— didn’t know this guy; didn’t want to piss anyone off. She’d made it a habit to take first crack at the Pop Tarts every Monday morning, after the Sunday-night restocking. Knew that nobody but early-riser Steve was likely to be in the VIP kitchen then— bright and early, fresh from his run— which made it the ideal time for her weekly raid: Steve Rogers wasn’t a snitch. 

The mystery man had thrown an unexpected wrench into what was usually a smooth operation, and she took a few extra seconds to weigh the variables. Whoever he was, he seemed pretty occupied with the fridge. She only needed a minute… 

She made up her mind: turned back to the cupboards, refocusing on the mission. Boosted herself up onto the countertop: first a knee, and then the rest of her body, scrambling up like a little kid. Straightened up most of the way, careful not to lose her balance as she tugged her knit skirt back down. Maybe it was inelegant, climbing on the counters like this, but it was the quickest way to reach the very top shelves, where they kept the junk food. 

She opened the cupboard. Yup: shelves were full again, ready for pilfering. Slipped one strap of her backpack off and swiveled the bag around to her front; unzipped it and began loading up— crammed in as many boxes as she could fit, favoring the frosted flavors over the boring plain ones. 

Once the pack was stuffed to capacity, she zipped it up and hopped back down. The whole operation had taken less than twenty seconds. 

“So I’ll see you later,” she said briskly, turning around to say bye to Steve, as she re-shouldered her backpack. “I gotta— _whoa_.” 

She froze, one hand still on her backpack-strap. 

It was the guy from the fridge: he was facing her now, about ten feet away. His dark brown hair was shoulder-length— messy sweeps of it framing his face, like some west-coast rocker; pretty blue eyes. A bit of a beard growing in, which didn’t hide the flattering angles of his cheekbones, or the perfect lines of his cupid’s-bow lips, which were slightly parted, like she’d startled him too. 

He was… how to say it? 

_Attractive_ was not an adequate word for this man. There would have to be brand-new word invented, to sum it up: the multitude of reasons— some of them obvious, some of them a surprise— that made this man so exactly, disturbingly _right_. She felt like she’d had the wind knocked out of her. 

_So this is how it feels_ , she thought. _Love at first sight_. 

After the initial shock, she realized how disheveled he actually was— looked like he’d rolled out of bed, gotten dressed in the dark— but in no way did that lessen the impact. 

He was staring back at her— a half-eaten granola bar poised in his hand, its wrapper peeled back. Steve, meanwhile, was still working at the counter— methodically slicing his toast into triangular wedges, oblivious to the explosions going off behind him. 

Darcy tried to turn her head toward him to speak, but she couldn’t stop staring— was looking straight at the dark-haired man when her breath returned to her body, the words spilling from her mouth uncensored: 

“Yo, _Steve_ : who’s the hot hobo?” 

* * *

Bucky had given up on the fridge, after a minute of scanning the shelves, pawing through the containers of mystery items; shut the door and took another bite of the emergency granola bar he’d already been working on. Turned, and then froze— choking a little— as he came face-to-face with the most gorgeous girl he’d seen in over seventy years. 

She was standing stock-still in the middle of the break room, staring at him from behind a pair of smart-looking plastic-framed eyeglasses. She was petite, but curvy, with wavy brown hair that spilled over her shoulders. Big red lips. A fantastic pair of legs: the little, black, hip-hugging skirt she had on giving him more than an eyeful. 

She had the manner of someone who’d been caught with her hand in the cookie-jar, but there was something else in her expression as well— something he couldn’t decipher. 

He was aware that he was staring, but he couldn’t seem to stop, and he suddenly wished he’d made more of an effort with his appearance that morning— or any effort at all. 

He knew he was a mess: resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair, get it out of his face. He hadn’t even showered yet— smelled a little ripe; he was barefoot, his sweats were a day old, and he was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘ _Shit for Brains_ ’ on it. He could see her eyes dropping down to read the words. 

Some smart-ass had gotten the shirt custom-made— had left it hanging on his locker a week ago: _welcome to the team_. A prank of sorts, which had backfired; it’d instantly become his favorite shirt. 

Now, though— with this pretty girl sizing him up— he felt like a dumbass. 

She’d said something— asked a question, maybe— but he couldn’t say what; felt like he’d been conked over the head. Thankfully, Steve saved him— twisting to look back at them, as he spoke up. 

“This here’s my friend,” he said. “Just got in from Wakanda, last week. Name’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes.” 

“What, for real?” she said, and Bucky could see the surprise on her face— matching the disbelief in her voice, as she glanced at Steve for a second. “ _The_ Bucky Barnes? As in, _Sergeant James Buchanan?_ ” 

He didn’t know how to take her reaction: was that a good thing, or a bad thing? 

“Holy shit, dude,” she said, meeting his eyes again. Her voice was a little deeper than the average woman’s: a little raspy, a little rough— like her choice of words. “I didn’t even recognize you, under all that stuff you got goin’ on.” 

It took him a second, but he realized she was talking about his beard. He hadn’t given it much thought before, but maybe he oughta do something about it. Tidy up a little, or shave. 

She rolled her eyes dramatically then, and gestured to his metal hand, which was still gripping the granola bar— frozen mid-air, like a stalled piece of machinery. “I guess the arm would’ve been a pretty good clue, huh?” She kept going, not waiting for an answer: “Oh well; I never claimed to be the brightest bulb in the room.” 

So she was funny, too. He was trying to speak— to say something; anything… 

_Come on, Barnes, you big dummy_ … 

“You still like to dance?” she said, apparently unfazed by his failure to communicate. “Because I remember reading somewhere that you used to be killer at it.” 

“Uh…” 

“Yes-or-no question, Sarge. Is it okay if I call you Sarge?” 

“You can call me Bucky,” he said, blurting it out— and then for some reason, he blushed, and felt like an even bigger idiot. He wondered if he had granola crumbs in his beard. 

She just grinned back at him— a big, full-mouthed smile, showing off a little gap in her front teeth— and it sent a tingle through his body, straight down his spine, shivering its way into the beginnings of a boner. Fuck, this girl had super-powers. 

He was distantly aware that Steve was still there— had put another couple slices of bread into the toaster— and that he was hearing every stilted word of this fumbling, awkward exchange. Would no doubt give him a relentless amount of shit for it, later. 

The pretty girl was speaking again: “So what’s it gonna be,” she said. 

“Huh?” He’d lost track already. 

“You gonna take me dancing?” 

“Yeah, sure,” he said, not wanting to say ‘ _no_ ’ to anything this girl had to say. 

“Great,” she said. “Because nobody else around here can dance for shit.” 

“Uh…” 

“Well, I gotta get back,” she said, and then she was moving toward him. He tensed up a little— unsure what she was planning— but then she slipped deftly around him, to get to the open doorway, swiveling to walk backwards a few steps as she stepped through it. 

“See you around,” she said, and he didn’t miss how her eyes subtly moved down his body and back up again, to his face… 

_Say something, goddammit_. 

Steve rescued him once again: glanced over his shoulder, cheerfully answering for them both— “See ya, Darce”— and then returned to manning the toaster, like nothing extraordinary had just happened. 

Bucky watched her go, and then he was quiet for a minute, trying to digest it. Looked down at the granola bar— he’d forgotten he was holding it— and set it down on the wood-topped island, next to a basket of apples, feeling like he was moving in slow-motion. Realized that Steve had begun to snicker, quietly... 

“That’s right, asshole,” said Bucky. “Laugh it up.” 

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Steve. “Been a while since I seen the master at work…” 

“Fuck off,” said Bucky, but there wasn’t any heat to it; in truth, getting his balls busted by Steve was as sweet as any homecoming. 

He tunneled his flesh hand into the right-side pocket of his sweat-pants and adjusted his junk, not bothering to be subtle about it, and then went over to pour himself a cup of coffee, just to have something to do. Maybe he should make some eggs… 

He poured the coffee— took the steaming mug over to the island, but set it down without drinking any; just stared off into space, still thinking about the girl. Those eyes, those lips… God, those _legs_... the sexy scrape of her voice, poking at him— maybe teasing him a little, like she was prodding him, to see if he was awake. 

Maybe he hadn’t been so sure of it himself, that morning— whether or not he was really awake, really here. Some days it was more obvious than others, but there were times he still got sucked into a fog: so much of his here-and-now blending too seamlessly with dreams, or false memories… 

But this was different— a different flavor of disorientation, making him slow: an epiphany of sorts, rather than an uncertainty. A kind of wonderment at the realization… 

Because there was no doubt, in this moment: He was here. Awake, and alive, and… 

“Christ,” he said— ran a hand through his hair, trying to get a grip. “What the hell just happened?” 

“I think you just made a date,” said Steve. He was taking his jelly knife to the sink to rinse it, before adding it to the few other dirty dishes in the basin. “To go dancin’,” he added, once he’d turned off the water. 

Bucky didn’t comment, and Steve went back to his toast— graciously held out the plate, offering to share— but Bucky just looked at it, and shook his head _no_. 

“I don’t think she was kiddin’,” said Steve, as he picked up a slice. “You better start practicing. You ain’t danced in, what— seventy years?” 

Normally Bucky would’ve told the guy to go fuck himself: even after seventy years, he bet he could still dance better than Steve— and anyway, it was all just a joke, right? She couldn’t have been serious… 

And yet, he couldn’t help imagining it: holding that girl in his arms, spinning her around a dance floor… 

It was simultaneously thrilling, and terrifying. It’d been a long, long time, since— well, since a lot of things. 

“What’s her name again?” 

Steve spoke around a full mouth: “Darcy.” 

“What?” 

Steve swallowed, and tried again: “ _Darcy_. Darcy Lewis.” 

“Darcy,” said Bucky, repeating it. “How come I ain’t seen her around? I woulda noticed. She live off-site?” 

“Naw,” said Steve. “She works over on the east side— in the labs, with Foster. Not supposed to be up here.” 

“That right?” said Bucky. “She some kind of scientist?” 

Steve turned around and screwed the lid back on the jelly jar, and walked it over to the fridge. “She ain’t a scientist,” he said. “More like… a personal assistant.” He paused with his hand on the fridge door; looked back at Bucky with his eyebrows raised. “Do _not_ call her a secretary, unless you wanna get tased in the balls.” 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky was grinning now. “Keep talkin’… she’s gettin’ better ’n better…” 

Steve shut the fridge and went back to the plate of toast. “She comes up here to steal the Pop Tarts,” he said. “Thinks she bein’ sneaky. It’s a… thing we do.” 

“What do you mean, a ‘ _thing_ ’.” 

“Oh, you know,” said Steve. “She pretends I don’t see what she’s doin’, and I pretend I don’t see her seein’ me.” 

“Huh,” said Bucky. He had his arms crossed over his chest—was watching Steve carefully. After a pause, he said, “You sweet on her?” 

“Naw,” said Steve, talking around the toast. “Darcy’s great an’ all, but… she ain’t my type.” 

Bucky dropped his arms then, and turned around; grabbed an apple out of the basket. Shined it on his shirt and then looked down at it as he sighed the words out dramatically, like he was disappointed: “I hate to break it to you, Stevie, but you got shit taste in women.” 

Steve couldn’t help but bloom a little— feeling it like a warmth in his chest— because seeing this side of Bucky again was more welcome than he could express: like the sun was coming up. “Maybe I do,” was all he said in reply. “Maybe I do…” 

He put down his plate then, feeling a sudden energy— a lift in his spirit, like he actually had something to look forward to. "Think I'll make some eggs," he said. "You want in?" 

"Scrambled?" said Bucky doubtfully— he could still remember Steve's burnt eggs, from that other lifetime. "Or..." 

"Nah," said Steve. "Wilson showed me this hash his ma used to make; potatoes and onions and peppers. Crack some eggs on top and put it in the oven." 

"You serious?" said Bucky. 

"Don't act so surprised, you big jerk," said Steve. "I learned a thing or two, since the last time I cooked for you." He was already bending down to pull the big cast-iron skillet out of the cupboard. "You're gonna love it, I promise." 

"Yeah, all right," said Bucky, pulling out a stool at the island. Sat down, content to eat his apple and watch Steve work. 

* * *

And so, while Steve peeled potatoes and chopped up an onion, Bucky’s thoughts meandered where they would, their destination inevitable: a brassy, gap-toothed beauty, who, in fewer than five minutes, had managed what modern medicine, space-age technology, and countless hours of therapy had failed to accomplish, in all the months that’d passed, since he'd clawed his way back to life. 

Somehow, this surprise of a human— this Darcy Lewis— had applied the spark he'd needed; had revived with a smile and a few sassy words that piece of himself he’d been missing: the hopeful flush and familiar ache of a wakened, yearning heart. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW: injury/blood**

**Part Two: I Guess We’re Not Gonna Go Dancing After All**

* * *

If Steve noticed that Bucky spruced himself up a bit in the days to follow— trimmed his beard, took a little more time combing his hair— the guy had mercy on him, and didn’t rib him for it. 

Wilson wasn’t so subtle: smirked and gave him some shit about lookin’ real pretty, when he caught Bucky primping in the locker-room mirrors. 

A couple days later, Bucky found a pamphlet taped to his locker: some kind of puberty thing, entitled _What’s Up, Down Below?_ ; the cover page had a staged photograph of several well-groomed teenaged boys having some kind of friendly discussion in a school hallway. 

He ripped it off the locker door— crumpled it up, without reading it— but laughed a little, in spite of himself; apparently the word was out, and he could expect a steady stream of bullshit from here on out. This particular prank— the pamphlet— had Barton written all over it. Bucky had only known the guy a couple of weeks, not counting that business in Germany, but he could already sniff out the archer’s particular brand of smartassery. 

Under normal circumstances, Bucky would’ve devoted himself to some kind of appropriate revenge, but he couldn’t be bothered at the moment; he was on a much more important mission. He was trying to remember how to do this: how to show a girl he was interested, without coming on too strong. At the very least, he needed to make a better impression, next time he ran into Darcy. Show her he was more than some scruffy-looking, tongue-tied slob who needed Steve Rogers to speak for him. 

Turned out, none of it mattered; the science staff were swamped with some special project, so he didn’t see Darcy Lewis again for nearly three weeks— and this time, nobody was cracking jokes. 

* * *

“ _Darcy? You in here? Darcy Lewis!_ ”

Bucky was walking briskly, alternately calling out and then listening for the faintest human sound, as he made his sweep of the compound’s east wing. 

Steve was doing the same, over on the west side, and they were checking in with each other every couple minutes on the 2-way radio. So far, they hadn’t found any sign of the missing personnel. 

The upstate region had been struck by a small earthquake: a 4.9, the biggest since 2002. It wasn’t enough to cause any major damage, but there’d been some shaking— enough to trip the emergency system— and the entire facility had been forced to evacuate. There’d been a head-count by each department, and three people had been unaccounted for, including Darcy Lewis. 

Dr. Foster had been beside herself— had jogged over to Steve and Bucky, who were organizing a search. 

“I sent her to the records room,” she’d said, looking up at them both with worried eyes. “I needed her to pull one of the old files from storage, but she might have gone to get coffee, too. I don’t know if—” 

“It’s okay,” Steve said, cutting her off. “Bucky an’ I are gonna go in, sweep the facility— see if we can track down whoever’s still missing.” 

Technically, they weren’t supposed to go back in until the system diagnostic generated its final report on structural integrity, but they figured not much could damage either of them— unless a ceiling collapsed, which seemed unlikely. 

“I’ll go with you,” said Jane. “I can—” 

“No,” said Steve. “I need to know that everyone who’s safe, _stays_ safe.” 

He softened then, seeing the fear on her face— reached out one big hand to squeeze her bicep, gently. “We’ll find her,” he said— his voice reassuring in its conviction— and then he’d nodded to Bucky, and off they’d gone… 

Now Bucky was making his way through the science level, his sharpshooter’s eyes scanning everything— trying to ignore the tightness in his chest, the building anxiety. 

He didn’t even know this girl— not really— but she’d been on his mind ever since that morning in the break room, and the longer she remained missing, the sicker he felt: worried something bad had happened. Maybe something had fallen, hit her on the head… 

After what felt like an eternity of searching, but was likely fewer than ten minutes, he stopped suddenly, holding himself perfectly still— could have sworn he’d heard something… 

He listened to the silence, forcing himself to wait for five long seconds: nothing. 

And then, distantly… 

“ _I’m here— I’m here_ …” 

It was a weak female voice, calling out to him. She sounded desperate— scared. He made his way to her as fast as he could, following the sound of her voice… 

* * *

He found in her the records room— just as Foster had said— and he cursed, wishing he’d known the east-wing layout better— would’ve broken search protocol, to look there first. 

The room showed more signs of damage than the other areas he’d been through; the walls were lined with heavy steel filing cabinets, a couple of which had apparently tipped over in the quake, their drawers sliding out and spilling folders and paper onto the floor. 

She was lying on her back, in the chaos of spilled paper, her ankles and feet apparently trapped beneath one of the tipped-over cabinets. Her pretty face was pale, and smeared with dirty tears, but she was alive— turned her head to look at him, as he came through the doorway. 

“It’s you,” she said. Her voice was weak, but he could hear the relief in it. “You found me.” 

“You all right?” he said, as he pushed through the mess to reach her; had to resist the urge to immediately rip the cabinet off of her. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m… I’m in a lot of pain. Feel weird.” 

“Can you breathe okay?” He squatted down on one knee beside her; gently felt her forehead with his flesh hand: it was cool and clammy. 

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m just— my feet… can’t get out.” 

"I'm gonna take off your glasses," he said. He did so, gently— set them aside, carefully— and then checked her pupils: they looked okay; no dilation. 

She shuddered out a breath, grimacing. “Hurts so much. I think I might’ve… maybe passed out a little, but the pain keeps waking me up.” 

“How about your neck? Head and neck okay?” 

She nodded a little, even as she shut her eyes— fighting the pain— and then she opened them again when he pressed his fingers to her neck, checking her carotid pulse. It was fast, and not as robust as he would like; she was probably losing blood. 

“You cold?” 

“A little,” she said. Her lip wobbled, and some tears leaked out of her eyes. Her teeth were chattering, either from pain or shock. “Am I gonna die?” 

“Just hang on, sweetheart,” he said, as he pushed himself up. “I’m gonna call for help.” 

He pulled the radio off his hip and clicked it on, turning to face away from her while he talked to Steve. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice down. “I found her. Darcy. She’s gonna need evac. Probable crush damage, lower extremities.” 

The radio crackled with Steve’s reply: “Aw, hell. Is she… she gonna make it?” 

“Think so,” said Bucky, though he knew no such thing. “But get ‘em here fast. East wing, records room. Get Foster to give ‘em directions. I’ll, uh… I’ll do what I can to stabilize her, in the meantime.” 

“Roger that,” said Steve, and signed off. 

“Help’s on the way,” said Bucky, as he turned around again. 

“Okay,” she said, looking up at him. He could tell she was trying to be brave, in spite of terrible pain— had seen it enough times in his life to know the signs. 

“It’s gonna be all right,” he said, as he squatted down next to her again; set the radio on the dirty floor. He didn’t know whether he should focus on comforting her— hold her hand, try to keep her conscious— or check the condition of her feet. The file cabinet was huge— the type with long drawers, rather than cubes; was probably pushing nine hundred pounds when full. Whatever it’d done to her feet, it was going to be serious— life-changing. 

“Do you—” She stopped— grimacing again for a second— and then gasped out the rest of it: “Do you think you can… get it off of me?” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can lift it, if that’s what you mean. But I’m not sure if… I don’t wanna do more damage…” 

“I don’t care,” she said. 

“I know,” he said. “I know it seems that way, but…” 

“ _Please_ ,” she said, and it was so plaintive, it broke his heart. 

“Lemme take a look, okay?” he said. 

He was methodical— made his way down the line of her body, carefully slipping his fingers between her clothing and the floor and then pulling them back, checking for blood. It was all good, until he got close to the edge of the cabinet— realized that it’d partially severed her legs at the ankle, or just above. Her black stockings above the point of impact were soaked through with blood, and more was pooling on the floor beneath her. 

“Shit,” he said, under his breath. There was too much of it: some danger she could bleed out, even before the medivac got there. He grabbed the radio off the floor and clicked it on, even as he pushed up and looked around the room, searching for something he could use… 

“Steve,” he said, and then paused, as he spied a pile of ballpoint pens on the floor; they’d fallen off a supply table and exploded out of their box. He reached down to grab a couple, as the radio burped back at him. 

“Hey,” said Steve. “I got the other two; they’re fine. How’s Darcy?” 

“What’s the ETA for medivac?” said Bucky, his words clipped. He was still looking around— needed something to tie off her legs… 

“It’s gonna take some time,” said Steve. “Local hospital doesn’t have a—” 

“Christ sake,” said Bucky, spinning around as he continued to scan the debris; was feeling a bit frantic. “Ain’t we got a chopper?” 

“Not right now,” said Steve. “Tony took it down to the city last night— some gala at the Met.” 

“ _Fuck_.” 

“She in trouble?” said Steve. 

“I dunno,” said Bucky, his voice wavering a little. “Maybe.” 

“Look, just… do what you gotta do. EMTs from town are on their way; we’re lookin’ at… maybe ten, fifteen more minutes.” 

“All right,” said Bucky. “All right.” He signed off— practically threw the radio aside— and then pulled his T-shirt up over his head, and started to rip it up into long, wide strips, using his teeth to start, and then rending the fabric roughly with his hands. 

“Wha’s happening?” said Darcy. She sounded fainter— sleepy. “Are they here?” 

“Not yet,” he said, squatting down again. “Stay with me, honey. I’m gonna tie off your legs— stop the bleeding.” 

“Okay,” she said, and then, “Hey… you took off your shirt…” 

“I gotta warn you,” he said, as he began to wrap the first strip of fabric around one of her thighs, over the stockings. “It ain’t gonna feel good.” 

“S’okay,” she said, and he looked at her face again, alarmed by how tired she sounded. She was drifting… 

“Hey,” he said. “ _Hey_. Darcy. Stay awake, all right? Keep talkin’ to me. Tell me… tell me what you guys are doin’ in the lab.” He made sure she was doing it— keeping her eyes open, trying to talk— and then he went back to work, tying the strip in a half-knot just above her knee joint, and then did the same on the other leg. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she said drowsily, ending her slurred attempt to summarize Jane’s research. “Why you gotta get naked now… when I can’t… can’t do anything ‘bout it…” 

He was working quickly now— used the ballpoint pens as windlasses, knotting the strips to each pen and then twisting each one in turn, around and around, until they were tight. She whimpered a little at the end, and he hated it— hated that he was hurting her further— but there was no helping it, if he was going to save her life. 

“You with me?” he said, when he was all done securing the pens— used the ends of the strips to tie them firmly in place, so that they wouldn't unwind. "You're doin' real good." 

"Can— can you lift it off me now?" she said. “I want it off.” 

“I don’t know,” he said. Sat back on his heels, and blew out a breath. “Don’t know if that’s a good idea.” 

“Please,” she said, and she was crying again, the tears running freely down the sides of her face. “I don’t wanna die with that thing on me. Just get it off.” 

His heart went out to her, and he conceded, finally: “Okay. Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’ll get it off.” 

He pushed himself up again— took a minute to assess the angles, figuring out the best way to approach it so that he could lift it straight off and away. He leaned down and got a good grip on it… 

"You ready?" he said, pausing to check her face. "S'gonna hurt.” 

"Don't know how it could hurt any worse," she said. "Just do it.” 

“Kay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Here we go.” 

If she hadn’t been screaming while he lifted it off, Darcy probably would have appreciated the glorious view of shirtless Bucky Barnes hefting a nine-hundred-pound metal cabinet and then tossing it to the side as though it were no heavier than a large suitcase, but she was in too much pain to enjoy anything. Anything other than knowing that she wasn’t going to die there alone, with that cabinet on top of her. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” said Bucky, breathing it out, when he looked down at her feet, or what was left of them. 

“Is it bad?” she said. “I can’t move my feet…” 

No wonder. Her ankles were completely crushed; her feet pulped, inside her flattened shoes. Nothing left but bloody wrecks of smashed bone and mangled tendons and red, raw meat. Her legs had been almost completely severed, just above her ankles. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, his chest filling with emotion. He didn’t know what to say. She was trying to sit up, to see, and he put a hand out to stop her. “Shhh… honey— just stay down, okay? Don’t try to sit up. Don’t look at it. Won’t help.” 

“Is it bad?” she asked again. 

“Yeah,” he said, not wanting to lie. “It’s pretty bad.” 

He wished he could cover her up, somehow. Hide the carnage, so she wouldn’t be tempted to look. But there was nothing even remotely sterile in there that he could use, so he just kneeled down again— scooted over so that he was up by her head, and then picked up her hand. 

It was small— almost dainty— but clammy. He could feel her fingers curl a little, responding to his gesture. He didn’t know what else to say— couldn’t bear to tell her that her feet were gone. 

She must’ve guessed at how bad it was, because she said, “I guess we’re not gonna get to go dancing after all,” and it killed him: how she was trying to make jokes— stay upbeat, even as she lay there with her feet practically cut off. 

“I’ll still take you dancin’,” he said. “Don’t you worry about that.” 

“Promise?” 

“Yeah.” He lifted her hand up to his mouth, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. “That’s a promise.” He felt her squeeze his hand, weakly, in answer. 

“Don’t go,” she said softly, her blue eyes searching his face. “Don’t leave me here alone.” 

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he said. 

* * *

He kept talking to her— kept her awake, never letting go of her hand— until the paramedics pushed their way into the room, followed by Foster, who clapped a hand over her mouth when she saw the state of her friend’s legs, and then turned away, bursting into tears. 

Bucky got out of the way, grabbing Darcy's glasses off the floor so they wouldn't get crushed. Gave the paramedics as much information as he could, while he and Foster stood off to the side. She was still crying, and when she leaned into him a little, he put his arm around her. 

“She’s gonna be okay,” he said, weakly. He still didn’t know if it was true, but he needed to believe it, just as much as Foster did. 

* * *

She wound up being airlifted to the big hospital in Albany. It was a two-hour drive from the compound, but he still tried to visit her at least three times a week; sent flowers and cards and other little presents, when he couldn’t. 

Jane wasn’t able to visit as often— her duties at the lab didn’t allow for that much time off— but she still made it down most weekends. 

Now she was sitting there, on the visitor’s bench in Darcy’s private room, taking in all the bouquets and balloons and stuffed animals filling up the space. 

“I think he likes you,” she said dryly. 

Darcy was lying in her hospital bed, the back raised up, unwrapping the latest gift: a beautiful little box of artisanal chocolates. “Holy shit,” she said, as she looked at the writing on the box. “This is the good stuff. You know, from that little French place in the village? The hand-made ones." 

She lifted the lid. Removed the protective parchment, and then plucked one of the chocolates from its crinkled-paper nest. She popped it into her mouth, and then shut her eyes, groaning as she chewed. “Oh my God,” she said, the words muddled, as she talked around a mouthful of chocolate. She held the box out to Jane, but the other woman politely declined. 

“How’s the pain today?” said Jane. 

Darcy had had seven operations so far. Her feet were gone— there’d been no question of trying to save them— and she’d needed extensive work to preserve the remaining parts of her lower legs. There wasn’t much left: just enough to fit into some below-knee prostheses. 

The good news was that her excellent Stark-Industries worker’s comp benefits were going to get her some top-of-the-line gear, and extensive physical therapy to learn how to use it. She just had to wait until her stumps healed up enough to properly fit them. She’d be in a wheelchair for a few months, at least. 

“Earth to Darcy,” said Jane, teasingly; Darcy was apparently too busy having a mouth orgasm to answer the question. 

“Huh?” 

“The pain,” repeated Jane. “Is it getting better?” 

“Think so,” said Darcy, as she replaced the lid on the little box and set it aside. “The nerve blocker seems to be working better, at least. Stump A is itching like a motherfucker, though.” 

She’d taken to calling her legs ‘Stump A’ and ‘Stump B’, and referring to herself as ‘Stumpy’ instead of ‘Darcy’, which made everyone really uncomfortable— except for Bucky, who totally got it. 

The first time he’d seen her legs with the wraps off— seen the ugly, misshapen knobs where they’d sewn her muscle and skin in flaps over the ends of her truncated limbs— he hadn’t even flinched. He was the only one, outside of the medical team, whom she’d let see, when she was changing or adjusting the wraps; most people got the sanitized version: everything tidy, wrappings firmly in place. The stretchy bandages weren't merely cosmetic— a tight wrap was important for the healing and shaping of her stumps— but Darcy knew most visitors were relieved to be spared an up-close-and-personal view of her altered body. 

When Bucky’d first come to visit, in the early days, it’d been obvious right away that he was different from most: he hadn’t averted his eyes or schooled his features in that telltale way everyone else did; he’d just smiled, like he couldn’t help it. Like he was just happy to see her. And, unlike Jane, who always used the term ‘residual limb’, he wasn’t offended or disturbed by her casual, almost cheerful use of the word ‘stump’ when describing her body. 

That wasn’t to say she hadn’t had her bad days; she’d had plenty of those. 

He’d witnessed one of the rock-bottom moments, a couple weeks in, when she was feeling really low and ugly, which _anyone_ would feel after two weeks of sponge baths and peeing in a metal pan, even if you _weren’t_ facing a lifetime of being a double amputee. 

“Nobody’s gonna want me like this,” she’d said, sobbing, completely contrary to the evidence around her: that somebody _already_ wanted her, and that the ‘somebody’ was right there in the room, sitting by her side. 

“I’d tell you you’re crazy,” he said. “Only I won’t insult you by sayin’ what you’re feelin’ is wrong.” He sighed and turned his head to the side. “Had plenty of low days myself.” 

“It’s not the same,” she said, feebly. She’d stopped crying, but now her face was just blank… numb. He knew the feeling well. 

“How so,” he said, wanting to keep her talking. Keep her from packing the feelings away in her head, like he knew she might, if people let her. 

“Because you’re fricking gorgeous,” she said. “Nobody cares that you’re missing an arm.” 

“I care,” he said softly, and that made her look at him again, blinking. 

“Sorry,” she said, and he just smiled at her, quietly— a small one, to tell her it was okay: that he understood. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” he said, and then he eased up from his seat and leaned in for a second; gently cupped the back of her head, and planted an affectionate kiss on the center of her forehead— apparently not minding that she had strings of greasy hair sticking to her face, and that she stank. 

“And in case you were wonderin’,” he said, as he settled back into his chair, “you still got the prettiest legs I ever seen.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three: Stumpy**

* * *

It was a Tuesday morning— coming up on lunchtime— and Darcy was lounging in her hospital bed, humming along to a tune on her iPod, as she flipped idly through a cooking magazine. Occasionally she’d pause— peel a brightly-colored Post-it flag from the plastic dispenser by her hip, and mark something that looked particularly yummy. 

She had no immediate plans to actually make any of the recipes— even before the accident, she hadn’t been much of a cook— but the photos were comforting: like previews of things she could still access in the future, if she wanted to. 

She was grateful for them: the cooking magazines. Of the variety of titles in the pile that Jane had left for her, they were safe— unlike _Vogue_ and _Elle_. She used to enjoy skimming the fashion magazines— looking at the pictures, ripping out the perfume samples— but not anymore. 

You never knew when it’d happen: when you’d turn the page, and see a full-body photo of some otherworldly, perfect-by-current-standards woman: a gorgeous, healthy, _intact_ woman, with impeccable skin and unreasonably stretched proportions. Women with impossibly-long, shimmer-sleek legs, tapering down to vibrantly-painted toes peeking out of thousand-dollar designer sandals. 

Darcy had always enjoyed footwear… 

So yeah: cooking magazines. Maybe her days of browsing Zappos were over— or at least on pause, until she found out what her new options and limitations were going to be— but she could damn well dream about all the delicious, not-hospital food she was going to eat as soon as she got out. 

She had less than a week to go until discharge now, if all went according to plan. Her team was encouraged by her progress— both physically and mentally— and she’d already gotten referrals for the next phase of her recovery: physical and occupational therapists, a prosthetist, and a counselor who had experience with amputees. 

She’d already learned the basics of how to use a wheelchair— had daily sessions with an on-call PT— and was gaining more independence every day: was getting better at using a slide board to transfer from bed to chair, and vice-versa, without needing extra assistance every time. Just that morning, she’d finally been able to use the bathroom by herself, thank Thor. 

Darcy reached over for another Post-it; marked the recipe for _Soyrizo Tacos with Adobo Créme_. The colors on the plate were beautiful— green avocado and purple cabbage— and she was feeling a bit sorry for herself, visualizing the comparatively drab prospect of yet another hospital-food barf-plate for lunch, when she was startled by a familiar figure appearing, unannounced, in her doorway. 

It was Bucky, looking as fine and fresh as ever— not counting that first day they’d met, when he’d been adorably rumpled. He was carrying a big paper grocery bag, and had a rolled-up blanket under his arm. 

“Hey, you,” she said, instantly brightening, as she pulled out her earbuds; beckoned him to come in. "What're you doing here? I wasn't expecting you today." She closed the magazine and set it aside, and then used her hands to brace herself as she scooted her ass back on the bed, so she could sit up a bit more. “Sorry I’m such a slob,” she added, plucking at the ugly hospital gown. 

His own smile faltered for a second: “Is it all right?” he said, and then angled a thumb back toward the doorway behind him. “I can—” 

“You kidding?” she said, interrupting him. “Best surprise I’ve had all week.” She gestured to the grocery bag. “What you got there? Please tell me it’s a lunch alternative.” 

“Well, you’re in luck,” he said, and then he tilted his head toward the door. “You, uh…. you wanna get outa here for a bit? Get some fresh air?” 

“God, I wish,” she said, ruefully. 

“You got somewhere else you gotta be?” he said. 

“Nope; I just doubt they’ll—” 

“I already asked,” he said, cutting her off. “At the nurses’ station.” 

“Uh huh," she said, going along with the joke. “What’d you do: smile at ‘em? You know they all wanna jump you, right?” 

“I swear to God,” he said. “We just gotta sign somethin’ and stay on the grounds.” 

“What, really?” she said— not kidding around anymore. “You’re serious.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “S’long as we don’t do nothin’ stupid.” 

“So no breakdancing?” she said, and then laughed when her question was met with a blank expression: she still forgot, sometimes, that a lot of twentieth-century references were lost on him. “It’s a kind of…” She trailed off, trying to figure out how to explain it. “You know what? Never mind.” 

She was already pushing the sheets aside enthusiastically, and shifting herself sideways on the bed. “I would fucking _love_ to have lunch with you. Just lemme throw on some real clothes, okay?” She leaned to slide open the drawer on the beside table, and Bucky stepped out of the room to give her some privacy. 

She got dressed as quickly as she could, in some of the soft, simple clothes Jane had brought for her. The outfit was sloppy— just a tank-top and a big, baggy shirt over it, paired with a knee-length knit skirt that was easy to pull on— but it was a huge improvement over the hospital gown: she instantly felt fifty percent more human. 

“All clear,” she called out, and he came back in; watched her level and lower the bed, until it was even with the seat of the wheelchair that waited next to it. 

He was ready to help if she needed it, but he knew to hold back unless asked: knew she wanted to do it herself, if she could. It took her a while, but she eventually got everything at the right angle, and was able to safely shift her ass over, into the chair. 

“Sorry,” she said, as she tossed the sliding board back onto the bed, and then lowered the right-side wheelchair-arm back down. “I’m still streamlining my method.” 

“You’ll get there.” 

“I gotta work out my arms,” she said. “I’m weak.” 

“I can help you with that,” he said. “You know, when you come back.” 

“Sign me up,” she said. “Especially if I get to watch _you_ work out, while we’re at it.” She wagged her eyebrows at him, and he laughed— a genuine laugh— and gosh, he was pretty when he smiled… 

She took the brake off the chair, ready to go. “All right, handsome; lead the way.” 

* * *

They had to stop at the front desk of the department, and she stayed off to the side— out of the way— while Bucky read over and initialed some paperwork on a clipboard: some kind of liability thing. 

There were rows of institutional chairs with bland, mauve cushions in the adjacent waiting area, and a couple of teenage boys were sitting there, in the row against the wall, leaning together to watch something on a phone. After a minute or so, she heard them snickering quietly: probably some dumb thing on YouTube. 

They were still doing it— trying to stifle their sounds— and when she glanced over again, they quickly looked down. She realized, instantly, that their mirth was at her expense, and something sank, inside of her. 

She hadn’t felt self-conscious about her stumps before— only fear, and a sort of muted self-hatred— but she’d been relatively protected until now: surrounded by friends and professionals. This was her first experience having someone react negatively— cruelly— to her altered body. 

It shouldn’t have felt so shitty; they were just a couple of stupid kids. But it was like a reminder: an unwelcome taste of what was waiting for her in the outside world— the _real_ world. She looked away again, her face burning. Kept her eyes down, averted. And then, a few seconds later, she heard another noise: the telltale sound of a phone’s camera taking a picture… 

“Hey asshole,” she barked out, a surge of rage overcoming her shame. She turned her chair, to face them square-on. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

Bucky had just finished up at the desk— grabbed his stuff and headed straight over to her, trying to figure out what was going on: who was bothering his girl. 

The kids saw him coming; sized him up pretty quickly— the muscles, the metal arm— and one of them said, “Oh shit,” and then they both got up and hightailed it out of there. 

“Yeah, you _better_ run,” she called after them— trying to sound tough, even as her eyes were stinging. “My boyfriend’s gonna stomp your thorax!” 

Bucky looked furious, his angry eyes following the boys until they disappeared around the corner by the vending machines. 

“They do somethin’ to you?” he said. 

“Nothing worth mentioning,” she muttered. “Just a couple of idiots.” 

He could see that she was hurt, though— that they’d gotten to her— and he put his free hand on her shoulder: gave it a little squeeze. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get outa here.” 

He walked just behind her, as she wheeled her way to the entrance; punched the big button for the automatic door with the side of his metal fist, and then followed her through. 

“Oh my God,” she said, tipping back her head, as soon as they were outside; shut her eyes briefly. “Sunlight…” 

They headed down the sidewalk to the wheelchair ramp— checked for cars— and then he stepped off the curb as she wheeled down to cross the street; went over to the ramp on the other side, and back up to the sidewalk. 

“There’s a shady spot over by the duck pond, if you want,” he said. 

“Sounds nice." 

They were both silent for half a block then, lost in their own thoughts. 

“Sorry,” she said finally, slowing a little. “Didn’t mean to… you know. Say what I said.” 

“What do you mean?” he said. “Don’t need to apologize for yellin’ at those jerks.” 

“No, I mean—” 

She'd stopped. Seemed nervous, and he didn’t know why. Was looking at her hands, when she spoke again. 

“When I called you… when I said you were my… you know.” 

“Oh,” he said. 

They started moving again, and the silence fell over them once more. She could see the pond now, on the other side of a grassy area, shaded by a family of big, leafy trees. Just before they reached the grass, Bucky spoke up, abruptly: 

“I liked it. I liked what you said.” 

She didn’t know what to say— couldn’t even look at him. She didn’t know why she was feeling so shy about it: it was pretty obvious that he liked her, and that she liked him back. It’d been easy before, with the joking and flirting, but now that it was out there— put into words— she felt tongue-tied and timid. She knew she should say something, but he spoke again first: 

“I mean if—” He seemed just as flustered as she was. 

“Okay,” she said, and that seemed to settle it, for both of them. 

There wasn’t any wheelchair access down to the pond— just a gently-sloping expanse of grass. He apologized, but she brushed it off. Wasn’t his fault. 

“I could carry you,” he said. “I mean, I know you don’t like bein’ helped…” 

“It’s okay,” she said. “I think I could stand being carried by you.” And then she grinned at him, but it was a little different now: something else there, in her smile, or maybe in her eyes… 

She put the brake on her chair, and he set the bag of groceries down in her lap, along with the rolled blanket, and said, “You got it?” 

She nodded, grabbing onto the stuff, and then he leaned down and carefully lifted her up— easily, effortlessly… like she was made of air— and carried her down the grassy slope. Found a nice shady spot, under a thick-trunked tree with wide, spreading branches. 

He set her down gently in the grass, and then took the blanket from her and spread it out. She scooted over onto it, using her arms and butt to move, while he grabbed the grocery bag. 

They unpacked the food, but didn’t dig in right away— just sat side-by-side for a while, looking at the pond, while a kiss of a breeze touched their skin and drifted through their hair. It was so fresh— so fertile: the scent of cut grass, dew and soil— and after so many days of breathing the still, stale taste of the hospital’s recycled air, Darcy knew she’d taken this for granted: how sweet it could be, this simple privilege… 

A family of mallards floated by: a green-headed male and his brown-feathered mate, followed by a long line of adorable little yellow-faced ducklings. Something about it made her want to cry, her eyes stinging as she held it back. 

“You all right?” he said. 

It took her a few seconds to answer. “That kid took a picture of me with his phone.” 

“What?” 

She was still staring out at the pond, as she spoke. “Probably gonna post it to some pervy site for guys who like to jack off to amputees…” 

“Fuck,” he said, softly, looking down. “You shoulda let me stomp him, like you said. Coulda taken his phone— crushed it in my hand. Made him piss himself.” 

She giggled a little— he was so good at cheering her up— and then she closed her eyes. “Mmm,” she said, smiling. “That’s gonna be my new before-bed happy-thought.” 

He chuckled as he looked up again, his eyes moving over her face. She looked content: like the image really made her happy. And then he dropped the smile… 

It was almost like she could feel the change in the air, because she opened her eyes again and looked at him. “What is it?” 

“Nothing, I…” 

He was gonna ask permission, but then he was already moving: leaned in and brushed her lips with his mouth; paused there, holding, on shallow breath, until he was sure of her answer— and then he closed his eyes and cradled her head as he pressed in full to kiss her… 

He felt her reach up— touch the side of his face— keeping him there, as they moved together, saying all the things they’d been holding inside… 

When they stopped to breathe, they didn’t really part; just shared the air, heady and ripe— his lips half-pressed against her cheek, feeling the pound of his heart. 

* * *

Her room at the compound was slightly altered when she returned, Jane having seen to some basic modifications. The doors to her bedroom and bathroom had been removed; the area rug in the main room had been rolled up and stored; and grab-bars had been installed in the bathroom. Some things, like the height of the counter in the kitchenette, couldn’t be helped, but she would just have to make do until she got her prostheses. 

Now that she was home, she saw Bucky almost daily: he drove her to her appointments, helped her at the gym. Some days, they just lazed around her apartment, watching movies and making out. 

Lots of making out… 

They hadn’t gone all the way yet, which was new for Darcy: she’d never been one to drag things out, if she was feeling the fire. But things were different now, and she was taking her time. Truth be told, she was a little nervous about it: how that was all gonna work, with the changes to her body… 

* * *

“Where’d you get that shirt made?” she said one day. 

She was wheeling around her bedroom— putting her clean clothes away— while Bucky lounged on her bed, resting his eyes. He looked so good, stretched out on his back, that she would have joined him, if they hadn’t had a lunch date with Steve in half an hour. 

“What shirt?” he said. The one he had on was just a plain, navy-cotton V-neck. 

“The one you were wearing the day we met. You know… ‘ _Shit for Brains_ ’. I wanna get one of my own.” 

“You want a ‘ _Shit for Brains_ ’ shirt?” he said, laughing. 

“No,” she said. “Just… something custom-made.” 

“Oh,” he said. “I don’t know. Someone gave it to me.” 

“Oh, like a joke?” 

“More like an insult,” he said, grinning again. 

“Are they still breathing?” she said, laughing. 

“Never found out who did it,” he said. “Don’t matter; I thought it was hilarious. S’my favorite shirt.” 

“Yeah, I know,” she said, and then she wheeled over to her desk, where her laptop stood open. “Maybe I can find a place online.” 

“Get me a new ‘ _Shit for Brains_ ’ one, while you’re at it,” he said. “Mine’s gettin’ worn out.” 

* * *

She shouldn’t have been worried about it: the logistics of being intimate. When they finally made love, she didn’t even think about her legs. 

All she could feel were his lips on her skin, the scrape of his stubble… the taste of his mouth as they mingled their breath… the smell of their sweat, as he slid fingers in between, his touch so tender it made her eyes sting… the satisfying stretch, when he finally pushed inside… 

“You make me feel good,” she whispered, as if it weren’t obvious… 

“Likewise,” he said, and then he kissed her deeply, rolling his hips… found a candid rhythm that soon had her gasping, curling her hands into the meat of his back— her mouth falling open as she smiled and sighed, moving and moaning and saying his name… 

* * *

* * *

“Wow, he’s really good,” said Jane. 

“Yeah, he is,” said Steve. “Always was.” 

They were sitting at one of the little cocktail tables in the darkened club, both of them dateless… stirring their drinks more than sipping them. They’d agreed to go together, as friends, because they hadn’t wanted to miss this. 

It’d been a year— almost to the day— since the accident; and though Jane had never doubted Darcy’s special brand of determination— ‘ _moxie_ ’, Steve called it— it was still something to see… 

“Sorry I can’t ask you to dance,” he said. “Unlike Bucky, I ain’t got a single dancin’ bone in my body.” 

“Me neither,” said Jane. “I’d rather just watch them, anyway.” 

Bucky— looking handsome as ever, in slim-fitting trousers and shiny black shoes— was twirling Darcy around the dance floor with enviable skill. Her pretty patterned skirt swished and swirled when she moved, the exposed-metal rods of her prosthetic legs making it clear that the cream-colored feet filling out her strappy, heeled sandals were some kind of cosmetic shell. She’d painted the toenails red. 

Bucky did a move that spun her out to arm’s length, and she laughed, the raw joy on her face infectious to anyone watching. He grinned, and then reeled her back in, and then they paused just to gaze at each other as he held her in his arms… 

And then he began to step again, falling seamlessly back into the music— guiding her expertly with hands and feet, his movements sure, practiced: almost elegant, in a way that people who only knew him as the _Winter Soldier_ would have never believed possible. 

Steve just smiled, because it wasn’t any surprise to him— this was pure Bucky— but better, because he was so obviously in love. It was beautiful to see; beautiful on both of them. 

Darcy’s delighted laugh cut through the tinkle of the music, and Steve could see Jane grinning ear-to-ear, watching her friend. 

“ _Who are they?_ ” a woman said, at the table behind them. “ _They must be famous… they look famous, don’t they?_ ” 

“ _Look at their shirts, though_ ,” said her companion. “‘ _Shit for Brains’? ‘Stumpy’?_ ” 

“ _Must be an inside joke_ …” 

Bucky spun her out again, and this time, when he reeled her back in, he dipped her— and then he couldn’t help it: leaned in to plant one on her, on the way back up, and then they just stood there, kissing— ignoring all the wolf-whistles and hoots, and one person’s shout of “ _Get a room!_ ” as they both got their fill. 

When they finally broke apart, they stayed where they were— eyes locked together, happy and whole— perfectly matched, height-difference and all; Darcy looking up at him, eyes shining bright. 

“I love you, shit-head.” 

“Love you too, Stumpy.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: the title and other uses of the word(s) 'stump', 'stumpy', etc: 'Stump' is a commonly-used word in the amputee community, though some find it offensive. Some choose to use it, or variations of it, and/or create other nicknames for their altered body part(s). In this story, Darcy uses these words as a way to cope with this big life change. When Bucky uses it, it's sweet. If those teenage boys had used it as a taunt, it would have been awful and wrong. Hope that's clear. This quote, from the past-president of the Canadian Paralympic Committee, sums it up pretty well: "I can say I am a gimp. You cannot. I'm a member of the club. When around my friends, I don't say 'My residual limb is bothering me.’ I say, 'My stump's acting up.’"
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  
> 


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